Page 64 of Fatal Fantasy

“Don’t waste your breath on me anymore, save them for your precious oxygen tank because if I ever see you again, you’re going to need every single drop of that free air,” I threaten, a powerful surge of rage coursing through my veins, but I don’t dare celebrate, not until he’s the one who concedes by ending this call first.

“Better step on the gas, Duchess. That tiny car won’t make it in time at this rate,” he snarks, and I hear Jasper inhale sharply, feel Tyson’s body tense against mine, but I’m focused on my target, treating this as if we’re face-to-face on the battlefield, not allowing my mask to slip in the slightest.

“Goodbye, Daddy,” I challenge, seeing if he’ll step into the ring for another round, but instead, I’m granted a victory the second he inhales another breath.

“See you soon, Duchess.” The phone clicks, signaling the end of the call, and I drop my head against the seat, staring up at the ceiling with a smile that couldn’t be surgically removed on my face.

“Jesus fucking Christ! How does he know everything?” Jasper shouts, his fists banging against the steering wheel, shaking the frame of the car, but I pay him no mind, allowing him to work through his thoughts as he does best – violently.

“More importantly, how are you such a carbon copy of him?” Tyson adds, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles from my chest, reacting to something that I’ve heard a million times over.

“Everyone back home always says we were meant to be twins, not father and daughter. My entire personality is his, but so is my willpower, fight, and merciless spirit,” I say, finally meeting both of their gazes, but their energy doesn’t match mine, a level of deflation hanging in the air that I wasn’t expecting.

Nobody knows my father as well as I do, but my boys can usually read my mind, body language, and heart with ease, so their less-than-excited spirits are concerning.

“Why do you both look like someone killed your cat? We got him right where we wanted,” I cheer, almost as giddy as I get when dabbling on the darker side, but I’m met with two worried faces that could erase my high, or drop me to my knees.

“He’s not backing off. We’re right back where we started,” Tyson says, but I shake my head, not wanting to hear the defeat in his voice.

“He’s never going to back down, that’s exactly what Jasper just said. This isn’t new information, but instead, I got him worked up, and when he’s not clear-headed, he makes mistakes. When I was old enough to be the rational angel on his shoulder, I talked him off many a cliffs, most of which were molehills compared to the mountain that I am,” I explain, and while Tyson doesn’t seem convinced, Jasper nods along like he’s with me, which is all I need to keep going.

Having them in my corner on the horizon of the biggest battle I’ll ever face is irreplaceable, and when my strength threatens to falter, Jasper and Tyson are the only two reasons I need to keep fighting.

“What’s the next move, Carter?” Jasper asks, his gaze locked onto the road, and suddenly, the rest of the world comes into focus, the trees blowing by my peripherals as I return to reality, the high of standing up to my father slowly fading.

There’s a million ways we could do this, a few scenarios that stick out as the most rational, but a devilish grin spreads across my lips, something so sinister that I couldn’t have thought of it unless I conquered the fear my father held over me.

“Let’s go to my fucking wedding.”

THIRTY-THREE

JASPER

It’s not even close to the craziest thing I’ve heard her say, so when Carter triumphantly declares she wants to attend her own fucking wedding, I absolutely roll with it.

There’s a glint of mischief in her eyes, something that hasn’t been present since we rescued her, but our time together has reignited the beast, and she’s ready to jump back into the fire, with us right beside her.

“Now you’re the one who can’t be serious, Carter. What the hell are you thinking?” Tyson asks, but rather than interject, I let Carter explain her train of thought, the plans of destruction sounding much sweeter coming from her lips.

“He said it himself, he wants to see me at the wedding. My father is many things, but he’s also dying. He can’t bop around like he once could, but he wants all the fucking power, so in eight days, four hours, and about twelve minutes … I know exactly where he’ll be.” She ends her argument with a beaming smile, like she’s cracked the deepest code, but in all honesty, she’s finally feeling powerful again, the ideas of blood and violence invigorating her like nothing else can.

Carter may have temporarily felt useless, like a discarded soldier with minimal amounts of hope, but over the course of the last couple days, she’s been slowly thawing, coming back to life just enough for the final transformation to occur right before our eyes.

“Your wish is my command, my little bride,” I say in response, programming our GPS to the next safe house, knowing that we have a few hours until we arrive, but the road is wide open, and I don’t anticipate any further firefights along the way.

We have a million things to go over, a logistical nightmare as we continue East, but eventually, we’ll have to return West, cross the border once again, and eat up the miles we already conquered.

At first, Tyson’s plan seemed feasible, like we could accomplish anything as long as we had checkpoints, safety nets, and an hours-long head start, but that naive thinking is what got Carter shot in the middle of a deserted highway.

As much as I admire Tyson for having faith before I did, planning this escape down to the letter, it’s time to change gears, and although my harsh declaration was met with resistance, ultimately, we all made the right choice.

“I’d rather die than be that man’s bride. White is not my fucking color,” Carter jokes, smirking from the cocoon she built in Tyson’s arms, and I can’t help but smile, knowing my little devil could make any shade in the color wheel bow down to her beauty.

“You’ll make a beautiful bride, baby girl. I’ll take you to a million dress shops until you find your dream gown,” Tyson proposes, and she melts even further into him, a smile bigger than the universe painted on her face.

“Black?” She muses, a color typically reserved for somber occasions, but it wouldn’t be authentic to Carter if it weren’t the funeral shade.

“I’d expect nothing less, my little grim reaper fairy princess,” I interject, knowing that in my rolodex of nicknames reserved for the creature who deserves a trillion ways to be showered with love, that one is at the top of her favorites list.